Many of us can agree that voicemail, as a concept, is dead: anyone listening to or leaving one has arguably too much time and too little regard for the recipient.
Who likes listening to voicemails?
The menu – the navigation – the unnecessary news that an energy service provider has been in touch to offer you a different electricity package.
(As my phone keeps reminding me I have 53 of these messages optimistically waiting to be heard.)
I hover near a generation in which long and pointless phone calls to the friends you’d spent all day with was an essential post-school afternoon ritual.
Every minute was itemised – every telling-off for the small fortune this was costing – accounted for on the quarterly bill.
Later in my first taste of work as an intern at this paper I was able to learn how journalists did their jobs because they were talking on the phone and to each other all day.
Five years later I was working at a start-up where real talk was at a minimum: conversations had migrated to the late great MSN Messenger.
Typing your talk officially took over.
Now the idea of ringing someone for ‘a chat’ has a quaint retro quality.